Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes) by Blair Bancroft Read Free Book Online

perfection never let up. It was Laine Halliday to the rescue, no excuses allowed. So it was a relief to know that for a few hours I could relax, because there was absolutely nothing I could do except stay in line, board the plane, eat, drink, and watch the sun set over the Pacific. By shortly after nine o’clock, I’d be in Lima. I’d catch some sleep at an airport hotel, make my phone calls in the morning, and be in Cuzco for lunch.
    So far, so good. The Arendsens need not fear. Fantascapes’ troubleshooter was on the way.
     
    My first phone call the next morning was so successful I decided not to rattle any more cages at the moment. An unfortunate mistake, Ms. Halliday. It will be dealt with immediately . But not so unfortunate an error, my contact in the tourist ministry added silkily, if it brought the lovely Laine Halliday back to Peru. Even if I were unkind enough to go straight to Cuzco.
    “ Carlos, my angel,” I returned in my best imitation of sultry, “next time I’ll stop in Lima, I promise. Hasta lo vista y muchas gracias.
     
    Cuzco, the Rome of the Inca Empire, lies in a deep bowl ringed by high plateaus and precipitous hillsides. Its red tile roofs topped original Inca walls and lesser structures created by rolling stones down the mountain from the great fortress of Sacsayhuaman. Cuzco abounds in genuine Inca walls, perfectly fitted without mortar, plus buildings created in the Spanish style by descendants of the Conquistadores, and bastard examples of cultural amalgamation, such as the sad fate of the great Inca Temple of the Sun.
    Thirty minutes after landing, I walked into the office of our preferred local tour company, Inca Explorations. I’d dressed for the occasion in the same clothes I would have worn if I’d taken Carlos up on his offer of Pisco Sours and seviche at one of Lima’s finest old hotels. Slinky black slacks, gathered at the waist and falling full over my shiny black leather half-boots. A matching hip-length jacket, buttonless over a sparkling white silk shirt fastened at the neck by a black lace jabot. My bronze hair was slicked back in an Evita Peron chignon; my earrings solid gold, and looked it. Big City Girl. Not from Cuzco. Certainly not from Golden Beach, Florida. For the men of Peru, the holders of power, I was suitably feminine. I was also a Somebody, with power of my own.
    Damn right.
    The Inca Explorations office is on a narrow street, flanked by Inca stonework, not far from Cuzco’s central Plaza de Armas. I was expected. Apologies, apologies. Abject apologies. A grave mistake. A phone call had come, ten days ago, canceling the Arendsen’s trek. Undoubtedly, a nasty joke. Perhaps a competitor? But since Fantascapes was such a good friend to Peru’s tourist industry, an exception had been made. All would be ready for the Arendsen’s departure tomorrow morning.
    I stared at the ageless owner of our favorite local tour company, a mestizo who possessed a name so unpronounceable by a non-Quechua that nearly everyone settled for Roberto. “You’re saying someone canceled our booking?”
    “ Si .” Minus the headfeathers, Roberto was doing a nice imitation of an antique wooden cigar-store Indian.
    “ That’s absurd.” But I’d have to accept it and move on or the Arendsens were going to be taking the tourist train to Machu Picchu without ever setting foot on the storied Inca Trail. “Sorry,” I said, summoning a weak smile, “I’ll deal with that problem later.”
    I inquired after Roberto’s wife and children and a favorite guide who had recently retired. Sympathized with some juicy political maneuverings between the high Andes and the alleged idiots on the coastal plain in Lima. When all the amenities had been properly observed, we went over the Arendsen’s schedule for the next week—four days on the Trail, three days at Machu Picchu, then back to Cuzco on the late afternoon tourist train.
    I shook Roberto’s hand, thanked him for deftly juggling his